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<p><i>`A year here and he still dreamed of cyberspace, hope fading 
nightly. All the speed he took, all the turns he'd taken and the corners
 he cut in Night City, and he'd still see the matrix in his dreams, 
bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colourless void... The 
Sprawl was a long, strange way home now over the Pacific, and he was no 
Console Man, no cyberspace cowboy. Just another hustler, trying to make 
it through. But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire 
voodoo, and he'd cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the 
dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, hands clawed into the 
bedslab, temper foam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the 
console that wasn't there.' </i></p>
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